


FANTASISE.

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, ahahhaabsvevev idk man, sorta angsty? probably nah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 21:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What did that mean? It didn't do anything more than frustrate him to no end, and he didn't speak French. That France, the annoying frog, must've slid it into his pocket when he wasn't paying attention. But what caught his interest was the writing on the other side, which he just noticed when it got wet. The familiar number, France’s number.Or, England regrets a lot of things.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	FANTASISE.

Raining at night, England decides to smoke. He pulls out the lighter, some scratches aside, old and historically important. Is that what he was, he thinks sometimes. A historical figure, nothing else. But from his pocket also falls out a little piece of paper. England bends down to save it from getting drenched on the wet floor, lips twitching on contact. 

It could've been from his gloves touching wet, muddy pavement, but it was also from the contents of that paper. A soft violet tint, neat cursive in black ink, it seemed like a delicate flower to him. 

I know what you fantasize about, mon cher. 

What did that mean? It didn't do anything more than frustrate him to no end, and he didn't speak French. That France, the annoying frog, must've slid it into his pocket when he wasn't paying attention. But what caught his interest was the writing on the other side, which he just noticed when it got wet. The familiar number, France’s number. 

A part of him knew what he wanted, another part denied it. England had to admit, he'd fancied France for a while, his first love, since he was young till now. After all, he knew he was weak to his voice,  England knew he was weak to the French’s voice. 

He lit the cigar, putting the lighter back, on the rooftop, England sat down swinging his legs. The night of Paris was dazzling, city lights illuminating the streets, like a thousand small stars on the highway. People laughed, walked and ran, England could see, most had their loved ones under their arm. A couple danced in the rain, filled with youthful passion. 

Passion was something he's known for a long time, those wars weren't only hate. In fact, it was never really hate. It was lovers’ spite, Portugal and Spain always interfered. He wondered if the passion was alive in France’s heart as it was in his. Smoke spiralled in the air, as England closed his eyes, remembering when France used to smoke.

England fantasized about exquisite things, like France himself. 

His hand under his chin, England almost melted into the touch. France’s slender fingers, caressing his chin while he smiled in a daze, eyes closed, lovestruck and almost drooling. He dared not open his eyes, as if France would disappear in a moment, leaving him alone on the rooftop. 

He wasn't real. 

England thought, while leaning forwards, as France seemed to slip away while pulling him closer. His gloves were drenched on the wet cement, but subconsciously he raised his hand, trying to imagine touching France’s cheek. 

So vivid, as if he materialised from the smoke, England almost felt his warm breath on his mouth, agape and eager. So vibrant, as if he were really here, England almost felt his soft cheek through his gloves. 

His hands pulled him closer. England was barely sitting on the roof when their lips brushed together, and he reached forward mindlessly. 

England opened his eyes in shock. He nearly slipped off the rooftop, as he sat with one hand outstretched into nothing. It keeps happening because he was in love. It keeps happening because he regrets. 

France had his hand under his chin, the  real France, leaning in and pulling him close. England thought he should've taken the chance, but it was too late the moment he slapped his hand away. 

He looked so hurt. 

Of course he did. He  was  so hurt. 

Just like England was when Scotland slapped his face. When Wales pushed his hand away. When Ireland refused to shake hands. Just like that, they all push the black sheep of Europe away. 

Oh god. He's hurt so many, that's why they're doing this. 

Even now, England regrets every bad word he'd said to France. 

Maybe if he hadn't called him a frog that one time, France would be here with him. Maybe if he hadn't told him to “bugger off”, he would've been waken up by his lovely voice this morning. 

Oh, so many regrets, many as the raindrops falling from the sky. England knows he shouldn't have gotten carried away a few centuries ago. Apologies wouldn't be enough to get the rest of Europe to forgive him, remember what he had actually done? Not just Europe, but Africa, Asia, America and Australia too. 

England blankly looked at the piece of paper. 

God, France hasn't gave up on pursuing the black sheep of Europe. Centuries later, France still loves him. 

At least someone does. 

The rain nearly drenched him now. Coat soaking and hat soggy, England regrets this, also. What did France say again? That he knew what he fantasized about? Well, if France really did, England would regret somehow letting him know too. 

England looked at the paper again. 

Maybe he should call him. He could maybe bring an umbrella, so England could discreetly be close to him. 

It was cold. The rain was cold, and the intensifying wind made him colder. He tried to pull his coat to get warm, but then he remembered his coat was soaking wet. France can appear and annoy him now, as long as he could get out of this rain. 

“Mon cher?”

Oh. Oh god he's here already. And he hadn't even called him. England turned on his heels, trying not to show the look of regret on his face. 

France held an umbrella, not as,  nowhere as  drenched as England. He realised he'd been thinking, standing here in the rain for a little too long. 

“Mon cher, what are you doing up here?”

His tone was genuinely caring, genuinely loving and genuinely worried about England. England could only look down like a child being scolded. It was to hide the little blush that crept on his pale cheeks, holding the little piece of paper tightly until it ripped in his wet gloves. 

“Let's go, you're soaking. You could catch a cold, you know?”

France took England's wet glove, pulling him under the umbrella. He sighs and takes off his hat too. 

“Angleterre, how long have you been standing out here? Your hair and your hat are both wet.”

England stayed silent, holding his breath and looking down. France tilted his head in confusion. 

“Is… anything wrong, mon cher?”

He only buried his face in his chest. He said mumbling,

“‘m sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said I'm sorry, fro- France.”

France was taken aback, hearing the prideful England apologise. But he could not think of any reason he should be sorry as England wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“Why- Why are you sorry?”

A deep sigh from England. 

“I've hurt you so many times, didn't I?”

Well what a day. England was apologising, without raising his voice or hitting him. 

“Maybe you have, but I forgave you.”

He looked up from his chest. 

“Really?”

“Really.”

England looked up directly into his eyes, still holding him, then  smiled . That was a pretty smile he smiled when he was genuinely happy, which France would die over and over again just to see one more time. 

Though he smiled, it was usually a saddened smile. A smile he smiled when he felt heartbroken, or felt hurt. England may have said harsh words, but it was in his genes to do that. Come on, France dated Scotland before. 

“But,”

But? What does that mean? Has he not forgiven me yet?

France smiled that saddened smile, takes a deep breath and returns the hug with one hand. 

“Please don't hurt me again. It hurt to know you didn't want to love me, to return my feelings, but you hiding it hurts  more  than you plainly disliking me.”

“I promise.”

France let out a sigh of relief. 

“Let's go get a taxi. You're drenched and you might catch a cold.”

England muttered something when they were forced to pull away and get down from the roof through the building. 

They held hands in the taxi, or, France took off England's wet gloves and held his cold hands, when the other looked into the window, refusing to look at him. 

The taxi stopped at England’s hotel, and France let go of his hand to head home. England didn't want him to go. 

Grabbing his hand, England stopped him in the rain. 

“Don't go. Stay with me for the night- I- I've been thinking and…”

France looked back surprised, but walked back close when he said that, cutting the blushing England off. 

“Alright then.”


End file.
